“AREN’T you going to shake hands?” he asked. He was leaning on the gate,
smoking a cigarette.
It was not so dark that the girl, who had halted a couple of yards away,
could fail to see the smile accompanying the words. Symington’s was by
no means an ill-looking countenance, though forty years, half of them
strenuous after a fashion, had blurred the fineness of the well-shaped
features; it would have been attractive, admirable even, but for
something in the eyes, something about the mouth, under the nicely
trimmed tawny moustache, that is not to be fully described by the word
covetous. His was a face that no wise man would regard without doubts,
that no wise woman would trust. Symington was tall and broad-shouldered,
but in the light of day he had a softish look, and one imagined him as a
“fat man” in the years soon to come. He was no hard-working farmer.
White Farm had come to him for lack of a worthier and fitter heir, his
two brothers having died not long before his father, and there were
honest people in the neighbourhood who would tell you that the good old
property was already on the road to ruin. Symington’s record was that of
a man who had seen a good deal of life in different parts of the world,
and learned little worth knowing, who had frequently touched the skirts
of Fortune but never captured her, and who had gambled away more hours
than he had toiled. And now, at forty, he was probably nearer to Fortune
than he had ever been, and certainly nearer to love, as he understood it.
For in Kitty Carstairs he had nothing to gain but youthful sweetness and
fresh beauty; indeed, in a material sense, the possession of her was
going to cost him dear—if he kept his bond with the contemptible John
Corrie.
“Aren’t you going to shake hands?” he asked again.
“Please open the gate,” said Kitty, “or I must go home another way.”
“It’s a lovely night, and your aunt knows I’m looking after you. I want
to have a talk with you, Kitty.”
She sighed. “I’m very tired—too tired to listen to any one. Please let
me go.”
“I won’t keep you long, and we can find a nice dry seat in the wood,
since you’re so tired. Come, you needn’t be shy with me, Kitty—”
“Are you going to open the gate?” she coldly asked.
“Immediately, if you’ll promise—”
He turned sharply. Some one had come out of the little wood, and was
crossing the road.
“Is that you, Miss?”
“Oh, Sam!” cried the girl in a gasp of relief.
“Can ye no’ get the gate open?” the postman inquired, as though no
Symington had been there. He came forward and laid a hand on the bolt.
“What the blazes do you want?” blurted Symington, suddenly erect.
“I’m thinking Miss Carstairs is due home by now,” Sam said coolly. “What
do ye say, Miss?”
“Miss Carstairs is in my charge, you interfering fool!”
“No, no, Sam; I’m not!—and I want to get home at once.”
“Kindly stand aside, Mr. Symington,” said the postman.
“Stand aside—for you!” exclaimed Symington in a fury. With an ugly laugh
and a curse he drove his fist at the little man’s face, sending him down
in a heap. “That’s to go on with,” he said, and strolled off.
“Oh, you coward!” cried Kitty, wrenching open the gate. “Are you badly
hurt, Sam?”
Sam was already rising, holding his aching jaw. Inwardly he was raging,
but all he said then was, “All right, Miss. My turn’ll maybe come. And
now I’ll be seeing ye home.”
She caught his arm, for he seemed in need of support.
“Ye’re trembling, Miss,” he remarked, “and no wonder. Never mind; it’s
all over now. But I’d just like to hear ye say ye didna think me too
interfering-like.”
“Oh,” she said earnestly, “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t
come. I’ll be grateful to you as long as—”
“There, there! It’s a reward to hear that ye didna want his company, for
he’s a rotten bad one.”
They walked a little way in silence, and then a sob escaped the girl.
She was at the end of her wits and her courage. Few of us can struggle
alone all the time, and she knew that Sam had saved her only for a matter
of so many hours.
“Come, cheer up, Miss,” he said kindly. “Ye wasna in the office
to-night, and your aunt told me ye wasna so well, so it’s no wonder ye’re
upset. Still—”
“Sam,” she interrupted, “I’m going to tell you everything—nearly
everything. You’re the only soul I can trust.” And in whispered,
spasmodic sentences she poured forth her tale.
Sam was more than shocked; he was overwhelmed.
“To think of it, to think of it!” he repeated feebly a dozen times before
wrath and pity took command of his honest soul. Then he was for taking
John Corrie by the throat, and shaking all but the last breath out of his
body, for telling Miss Corrie exactly what he thought of her, and for
presenting Kitty with his savings, yea, and his own little abode, to
enable her to stand independent of her unnatural relatives.
She was half-laughing, half-crying, by the time he paused for breath.
“Oh, Sam, you know I’d never allow you to do any of those things for my
sake, but I’ll never forget your goodness. You mustn’t do anything, or
I’ll wish I hadn’t told you. But I do want you to advise me what to do.”
“I never liked John Corrie,” he cried, “nor did any soul in Dunford; but
I never doubted he was a straight man. But dinna ye be afraid for the
five-pun’ note business—dinna ye be afraid for that!”
“But that’s what I am afraid of! I might escape from Mr. Symington by
simply going away, but not from—”
“Your uncle would never dare to—”
“Dare? After what he’s done, what would he not dare? And he’s clever in
his way. How did he get that five-pound note into my drawer?”
Sam’s hand went to his mouth. A sound not unlike a chuckle became the
beginning of a fit of coughing. When it had passed he said—
“We’ll maybe find that out yet, so dinna let it bother ye too much, Miss.
But if he tries to frighten ye, let me know, and I’ll deal wi’ him—by
gravy, I’ll deal wi’ him!”
“Sam, you must be careful. What if he got you into trouble, and you lost
your—”
“I can take care o’ myself,” said Sam, “except, maybe at the boxing—and I
didna get fair play from that scoundrel.” He laughed ruefully.
“The beast!”
“Well, well, as I said, my turn’ll maybe come—and yours’ll come to a
certainty, Miss. Keep up your heart. Are ye feeling a bit better now?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered warmly. “It’s not so awful when one isn’t all
alone.”
“Poor, pretty thing!” he said gently, “ye’ll win through yet. . . . And
now we’re nearly there, and I’d best no be seen wi’ ye. We’ll get a talk
at sorting-time in the morning.”
“Unless I’m forbidden the office.”
“If your uncle does that, we’ll just ha’ to find another way.”
With a hurried pat on her shoulder, he turned and went.
* * * * *
The cottage door was not locked. Having entered, Kitty stood still for a
moment, listening. Silence. She turned into the kitchen to find it, as
she had scarcely dared to hope, unoccupied. Her aunt and uncle had
evidently retired for the night. A candle burned on the table. A jug of
milk, bread and butter were there also. Somehow the sight of food
stirred her sense of humour. She had read of a murderer being treated to
an egg with his breakfast on the morning of his execution, and it had
struck her as pathetically absurd. Never before had such an attention
been paid her. She drank a little milk, because she was thirsty, and
went upstairs.
On the chest of drawers in her room she found a piece of yellow wrapping
paper bearing her aunt’s writing in pencil.
“Do your work in the office to-morrow morning as usual.”
So her uncle intended to keep his promise that she should “go free” until
the following night. But after that, what?
If Kitty had disliked Symington in the past, she hated him, nay, detested
him now. Yes, and despised him. His assault on Sam had brought about
the last. To give Symington his due, he had regretted the blow almost at
once. It had been a stupid blunder to make in Kitty’s presence. Her
indignant, contemptuous words had told him that.
He had gone home angry with himself, cursing the postman, feeling that it
would be inadvisable, if not fatal, to approach the girl again until the
thing had cooled in her mind. Then he could apologize, blaming the
outburst on his overpowering desire for her. Yes, he had better give her
a week, during which Old Corrie would, of course, continue to exert his
influence. Meantime he would make a trip to London. Whether he liked it
or not, he must convert a few Zeniths into cash.
Kitty endured a bad two hours before sleep came, but nature won at last,
and she passed the remainder of the night in blessed unconsciousness.
* * * * *
With the morning mail-bags Sam arrived in a heated condition, puffing and
blowing.
“I was in such a hurry to see how ye was, Miss,” he explained. “Keeping
up your heart?”
She gave him a nod and a brave smile. Poor old Sam! he was good and kind
and willing, but how could he really help her from her hideous plight?
They fell to work on the contents of the sacks, and the minutes ticked
past.
“Registered letter, Miss,” said Sam, throwing it to her end of the
counter, as he usually did with such a packet.
She was about to lay it aside for attention later when the address caught
her eye. A cry escaped her.
Sam turned to see her, white as a ghost, tearing at the envelope.
“Oh, what can it be?” she whispered. Then, as if courage failed her,
“Sam, come and take it. Tell me what it’s all about. I—I daren’t look.
It may be nothing much, after all.”
Sam’s fingers were none too steady as he received the envelope.
“Registered at Glasgow,” he muttered, and proceeded to extract the
contents.
These were a fairly plump number of banknotes, and a half-sheet of paper
bearing the words—
“From an old friend of your father.” . . . Sam read them aloud while she
stood rigid with her face in her hands.
“Am I to count them?” he asked.
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Five-pun’ notes,” he said, and there followed a rustling pause. “Twenty
o’ them—a hundred pound. . . . See!” he took one of her hands from her
face, and pressed the bundle into it. “Feel them—they’re real, ye poor,
pretty thing!”